Mais où sont les neiges d'antan
by spiritsandstars
Summary: E/E set between Paris and Venice in 1801. Enjolras, a soldier during Napoleon's descent in Italy, has decided to save a girl he has met on the streets of Venice, without knowing the consequences - as she falls ill, the only cure seems getting her back where a woman of the waters like her truly belongs. A story about longing and decadence.
1. Chapter 1

**i.**

_For swans, when they perceive that they must die, having sung all their life long, do then sing more than ever, rejoicing in the thought that they are about to go away to the god whose ministers they are. But men, because they are themselves afraid of death, slanderously affirm of the swans that they sing a lament at the last, not considering that no bird sings when cold, or hungry, or in pain, not even the nightingale, nor the swallow, nor yet the hoopoe; [...] But because they are sacred to Apollo and have the gift of prophecy and anticipate the good things of another world, therefore they sing and rejoice in that day more than they ever did before._

_(Plato, Phaedo)_

**Paris, 1801**

"Doctor, please, tell me what is going on. I have done nothing but taking the best care I could of her. All the others have told me that she won't see the end of the year... " the blond man sighed deeply, his fingers reaching for the cigars on his desk. "Please, tell me they are wrong. What should I do? I am ready to go at any length to... "

The doctor shook his head, smiling regretfully.

"The problem isn't the sacrifice you are ready to make, Monsieur. The problem is the one sacrifice you will never choose."

"What does that even mean? I am not wasting my money for some oracle that doesn't improve my wife's situation... "

"May I?" the doctor pointed at a chair; without waiting for an answer, he sat and adjusted the spectacles on his nose. "Things are more complex than I had anticipated, Monsieur Enjolras. You didn't tell me your wife was a foreigner, first of all."

"And what would that have to do with my wife's health? Besides, she has been living in France for four years now - and spoke French fluently when I met her. She's not some... "

"I didn't mean to offend her. It was a simple observation. No man in his right mind would assume anything about her status - it is clear she was raised among riches, am I right? Nobility, I guessed. Italian, by the shape and the color of her eyes."

"You are correct. One of Venice's finest - her family counted three doges in the last two centuries... "

"Until a borgeouis like you found her hiding in the canals, in 1797, starving. No offense, again. I fully support our Emperor's decision to reward his most faithful soldiers with titles and money, but my God, I would have expected some sort of... Of common sense, from a man like you."

"My wife's story and her background do not concern you. Your only concern is to find a cure."

The doctor shook his head again, looking at the blond man standing before him - he meant well, but he was too young to understand that there are ties that bind, more powerful than guns and devotion to old ideals. Unbreakable threads hanging over each man's head, and that can't be broken by simple matters of the heart. Before speaking again, he took a sip from the flask in his pocket; a liquor his family had been producing for generations - it reminded him of his peaceful village in the France Comté and his mother's arms.

"Well then, you should know that your wife is fine, medically speaking. She doesn't have any symptoms that indicate sickness. But her heart... Her heart is deeply wounded, Monsieur. She's been taken away from her homeland - she didn't leave by choice. And no homeland is homeland like Venice - you may have been there with your brothers in arms and seen a country at war with itself, but I firmly believe that that place is the gates of Paradise on Earth."

The young man angrily snapped the cigar between his fingers.

"That makes no sense whatsoever. I can easily understand what you think of soldiers - no more than you think of drunkards or sailors. But my wife left because she choose to come away with me, not because she had to. I am not a barbarian taking slaves like Achilles or Agamennon."

"Does a poor girl whose family has been killed by the Austrians really have a choice? You're fooling yourself. I do not doubt that she may harbor some feelings for you - but you and I both know that the night you left she cried. You were her savior, and salvation comes at a terrible cost - one may wonder if an eternity in Hell wouldn't be more pleasant."

"You might as well leave if all you have to say is some Catholic church teaching... "

"All I am saying, Monsieur, is that your wife is a woman of the waters - and you are a man of the earth. For your sake, and hers too, she tried to adapt herself to your living. But she doesn't belong here, and every day she wishes to come home. Longing has gotten the best of her, I believe. She lives in the land that sold hers, a land without water - it's inevitable that she will die out of a broken heart."

"Leave at once - I will not tolerate this kind of talking in my house. And I could denounce you, if I wanted to - the Emperor takes opinions like yours very seriously... "

"I know you only have your wife's best interest at heart - somehow, a man like you managed to love. It's only natural for you to hold onto the one person who changed your life. Which is why I beg you to consider taking her to Venice." the doctor grabbed his coat and case, heading towards the door.

"Venice? Taking her into Austrian territory? Now that we're on the verge of a war? Impossible. That is madness."

"Madness like falling in love with a woman only to watch her die?"

* * *

"What did the doctor say? Is she on a new medicament? I heard that the baths of Baden-Baden... "

"You really think I would bring my wife to Baden-Baden, Combeferre?"

"Enjolras, as your friend, and as a doctor, this situation is ridiculous. You refuse every kind of cure that can't be provided here in Paris, and everybody knows how limited that can be."

"Forgive me for not wanting to bring my wife straight into enemy te... " his friend didn't let him finish the sentence.

"Would you listen for once? Paris is full of women that spend their winters and summers in Italy - with your kind of money, there would be no questions asked. And you know it. You're simply scared."

"What would I be scared of?"

"Scared of her never coming back." a voice came from the hall, followed by some light conversation with one of Enjolras's maids. "Oh, Lucie, you're pretty as ever. No English girl compares to you... "

"You're back from London, I see. Unannounced as usual. And flirting with my maid."

"Ignore him." interjected Combeferre. "We're glad you are back, Grantaire."

"Combeferre, Enjolras. Sorry for bursting in without notice but - things in London got out of hand. I killed someone outside a pub."

"YOU WHAT?" Combeferre's face froze.

"The Sorbonne University has really hit rock bottom if they give degrees out to people who believe in everything like you, 'Ferre." Grantaire laughed, taking a seat. "Didn't kill anyone. My exhibit is over, that's all. I met with William Wordsworth - you remember that guy who married Courfeyrac's sister? He's a poet now. And she's beautiful. Needless to say... "

"You ruined another marriage? I've lost count." Enjolras sighed.

"Oh, come on. She's Courfeyrac's sister. I am not the first and won't be the last. But she missed a Frenchman - the English are so cold. I am not made of stone, a pretty girl like that clearly deserved better... "

"So you're practically a humanitarian?" Combeferre laughed.

"Precisely. And now I'm back in Paris, checking on the two of you and... see how things are going with her."

"The last thing she needs is seeing you... " Enjolras handed out a glass of wine to his friend.

"Oh, please. Maybe I will make her laugh - when's the last time she did, anyway?"

"That's none of your business."

"We were just talking about it - Enjolras refuses to go abroad. I don't see why, honestly. What's worse than seeing your wife in that state... "

"I'll tell you what's worse, 'Ferre. Seeing your wife happy and joyous and being scared to death that she won't feel the same way when she's with you."

"Grantaire, you've been back for less than ten minutes and you're already making me wish you'd leave." Enjolras breathed heavily.

"I'm simply stating the truth, Enjolras. We all know what happened in Venice, and yes, she will always owe her life to you - admit it, you didn't save her out of passionate love. You saved her because you wanted to be a hero. And now you're expecting her to worship you. Which is easier when she's sick and in bed, and won't be when she gets back up on her feet."

"That's enough."

"That's not enough. And if you'd rather see her like that, like Combeferre said, than facing the possibility that you might not be perfect in her eyes or have an actual conversation with her, you're not really... "

"I had a conversation with her, more than one, in fact. When she wasn't sick we- we used to go to les Tuileries very often. She loved the parks. And the banks of the Seine. And she spoke French with some Italian words in it and told me the meaning of her name... " Enjolras's eyes got watery, and he fixed his gaze on the candles on the table.

"And you're telling us all of this now? And why on Earth wouldn't you want that back?" Combeferre put his hand on his best friend's shoulder.

"Because it might not work, and... it's either me or Venice, at this point. And she will choose Venice. I am just- just the blond bourgeouis boy who got her out of a powder. We all know that if the Emperor hadn't rewarded me I would be less than nothing. She's practically a princess. And she might get all of that back. Who would choose me anyway?"

There were a few minutes of silence, where each of them sipped their glasses. Grantaire cleared his throat.

"The way I see it - or, better, the way one of my new English friends, guy named Coleridge, sees it... You're living Life-in-Death, and that's worse than Life or Death, Enjolras. It won't kill you, granted, but it will leave you emotionless and empty. Are you sure going to Venice is worse than this?"

"I am quite sure she will still love you, even more so if you take her home... She will respect you for that." Combeferre avoided quotations and stuck to the point - and considering from Enjolras's facial expression and resignation, they probably had made the situation clear. He really hoped his friend could forget his stubborness and take his wife to Italy.

The rest of the dinner was spent talking about Grantaire's journey to London - they didn't touch the subject anymore. But before leaving, his curly haired friend still managed to express his thoughts one more time.

"Enjolras. Her blood was not on your hands four years ago, why should it be now?"

* * *

That night, he visited his wife's room - she was not asleep, as usual, but she was sitting near the window, her eyes wandering from street to street.

"Eponnia, we need to talk. We- I - I thought we could go to... The doctors agree... " he felt his voice breaking. If I have to lose her to someone, let it be life, and not death.

"Yes, Enjolras?"

"We... we are leaving for Venice in three days." ironically, he felt underwater as those words came out of his mouth.

For the first time in six months, she got up from her chair out of happiness, and not routine. Her frail arms reached for his neck, and her mouth kept repeating the only word she could master in that moment.

"_Grazie_, Enjolras. _Grazie_."


	2. Chapter 2

**ii**.

_My first vision of earth was water veiled. I am of the race of men and women who see all things through this curtain of sea and my eyes are the color of water. I looked with chameleon eyes upon the changing face of the world, looked with anonymous vision upon my uncompleted self. I remember my first birth in water._

_(Anais Nin)_

* * *

The journey had been a long and difficult one - Enjolras's money could not pay health and good weather. Still, as they had settled down in the Hotel Danieli, Eponnia had carelessly left her trunks on the floor, and ran downstairs, to the Fondamenta, where the sun was setting its last rays. He did not remember the last time he had seen her running like a child - he didn't have the time to turn around, and she was gone, like the clouds after a storm.

_"Why do you have to be like this"_ he cursed in French a couple of times. _"You don't know what I've been through. You weren't the one who held your hand when your heart almost stopped beating."_

Still, he followed her quickly and found her playing with the muddy waters, her hands reaching for the waves.

"Eponnia, please, be reasonable. You are very weak. Don't lean too much."

"Enjolras, you will never understand."

"What I understand is that you will fall if you insist on... " his arm grabbed her wrist.

"No." she let go of his grip, with a strength he had never seen before. "I will not fall and I will not die, because I can't die by water."

"You most certainly can. Water is dangerous. That is how skilled sailors meet their death."

"Water is not dangerous. _Water is home. And sailors die because they are men, and men meet death by water the first time they lay their eyes on a woman."_

"Philosophy, now?" he scoffed, sitting next to her.

"Why do you have to be like this." she sighed, caressing his hair with one of her wet hands.

"Funny question to ask."

"So hard, and unmovable, like the mountains - and pining too."

"Maybe I would not be pining if I hadn't spent the last two years of my life thinking you were on the verge of dying."

"The heart is a burden, I will give you that. But you think I have not been suffering too?"

"I-" he turned to see her wide eyes, the ones he had fallen for when he was just a soldier who didn't know how to hold a gun. "I did not mean that."

"I know you didn't." her hand reached for his, and kissed him on the cheek. "I just wanted to get home, Enjolras. I thought you of all people could understand that."

"The difference is that I thought that home was you."

"You never did, Enjolras - I'm just a part of the picture, not the entire painting."

Silence fell between them, and the only sound that could be heard was the rafts of the gondolas against the waters of the lagoon. She was the first one to speak.

"Remember the first time you brought me to your home, and how sick I was, shivering and coughing, and I thought I would have died here and there, in the French countryside, so far from home and the waves..."

"The first crisis, it occured between Nimes and Arles. I remember that too well."

"You held me in your arms and told me about the story of Paris, how it was just barbarians who used their centuries on Earth to recreate the marvels of Rome, and there were cathedrals so high the sky seemed their natural end, and streets full of life, and gardens... "

"Yes."

"It's time for me to tell you another one. My story."

"Your story?"

"You need to eat and drink first. Come. It's only natural for me to be your guide. It has already happened once."

He smiled bitterly at his memories.

"They all think I saved your life, Eponnia. But it happened because you saved mine first."

* * *

She knew Venice better than everyone, Enjolras had to give her that - but the tavern she had chosen was a little bit too close to the canal for him to feel good. More than once, during dinner, he glanced at the door that lead to nothing but water.

"Are you scared?" she asked him, sipping her wine. At least she was eating.

"I am not scared. I'm not comfortable, there's a difference."

She shook her head knowingly. "I know. You're not one of my kind. Water makes you feel uneasy because you can't control it."

"Will you stop with this foolishness? I am glad you are feeling better - it's been only half of a day and you are glowing."

"It's the air. It smells like spice, and salt, and freedom. And it's not foolishness, it's - acceptance, let's say."

Her hand reached out to his and her thumb ran over his fingers.

"I hope you will able to accept it too, Enjolras. _If a story can't be accepted, there is no point in telling it."_

He smiled, tired. Those last few years had taken their toll on him all of a sudden - as soon as he had set foot in Venice, his decisive eyes and walk had left him. Instead, Eponnia had gained the grace of her movements and hypnotic smiles back.

"What is this story about, then?"

"Nothing special. A story of two kinds of people. My grandmother used to hold me in her arms and repeat it to me. _Donne delle acque,_ she repeated. _Donne onde che si infrangono contro gli scogli dell'amore."_ she translated. "Women of the waters. Women who are waves against the rocks of love."

"Sounds like a nice story. Is there magic involved? We have those in France too. Fairies and fairy dust, all that excuses for not working towards a brighter future."

"Don't be afraid of something because it clashes right against your heart - it may be the one thing you've held on to unknowingly. _What was your revolution, but a magic deal gone horribly wrong."_

"Eponnia."

"I am sorry. But this how I see it, Enjolras. It was nothing but men against men, and blood on hands - much more than you had bargained for. And for what? So you could bow to someone else. _You - well, your kind - bargained all they had for one moment - the moment of absolute hope, where everything seemed possible. The moment where you believed. My kind would have never done that. Change is never permanent - it is more of a necessary passage to keep the current state of affairs. It is only about the form. And we've always known - there are seas, oceans and rivers, each tailor made for the spaces they belong in, but there is only water in the end."_

"So that is what your story is about. Making me feel guilty with some folklore tales."

"It is not. This story is about me and you, no magic involved. Don't be afraid - mermaids don't really exist. Nor do rusalkas and ondine. But there are women of the waters everywhere. As I said before you interrupted me."

She silenced him with one look.

"Do you know who built Venice, Enjolras?"

"The Romans?"

"Typical answer. Yes, it was the Romans, but it must have all started from a man, right? A crazy one, who wanted to inhabit this lagoon, full of diseases, unstable, with a good view on the East, no doubt, but at an incredibly high cost... "

"So? Even Paris was nothing but a snake hole... Every city was nothing but dust and clay. But I must admit that you must need a pretty good reason to condemn yourself to a life of perpetual uncertainty, surrounded by hostile waters."

"Exactly. And the reason was that he needed that kind of uncertainty."

He raised one eyebrow, puzzled.

"_He was in love, Enjolras._ He was in love with a woman of the waters who would have died if she hadn't lived near them. And he wanted to save her, and kiss her every night. So he worked, and found a way to build on nothing but water. And others came after him, looking for certain death or love."

"It's a nice way of looking at it, I suppose. But what... what does this have to do with us, Eponnia?"

"Because... " her fingers caressed the angles of his face. "_There is nothing a woman of the waters can love just as much as a man of the earth_, Enjolras. She knows she will never have him, and she won't bear his children, but how different he looks from her kind - how does he live, how can he survive for ages without the sight of the ocean."

"I don't understand."

"It all happened because a man like you loved a woman like me. When I saw you for the first time... " she laughed softly. "_You were covered in gunpowder, and I knew I would have never loved anyone else as long as I lived. Because you are my promise, Enjolras. The promise of what I will never have, of what I will never be."_

His eyes remembered a young woman, her white dress and the dark color of her hair.

"You told me you liked Napoleon and would have helped me - you cleaned my wounds and kissed my forehead."

"See? Different form, same person. It's a talent."

* * *

They ended the night walking down nameless streets, holding hands and sharing kisses that seemed more beautiful under the lights of the moon.

He held her close as he whispered.

"The first time... you brushed my face with a white handkerchief, it was linen, and it smelt of lavender."

"I did. My mother loved the smell of lavender, we used to have so many flowers around the house."

"You kissed me."

"More than once, actually. You were so beautiful. You were the hero of my stories."

"I had never kissed a woman before, and since then I believed women smelt of lavender and water."

"And I knew that when you love something, you have to send its own way."

"What?" Enjolras's mouth pulled away from hers. He hadn't kissed her in a long time, and it took much of an effort to stop.

"You'll get back tomorrow. I know politics. And I know you. You deserve to be there when your time comes. I read Russia many times on your reports, and that is where you need to be."

"You want me to get back to Paris without you?"

"You have to get back to Paris. Look at you. You're not suited for this. You are shaking. You don't feel safe. You are feeling what I have been feeling for years, and it has only been one day. You won't endure."

"I was right from the start, then." he distanced himself from her. "You know, if you really wanted to stay here without me, you could have found a better way to say it than some home sick explanation. You could have spared me the "i will love no one but you" part, too."

"You really think I am making this up because I don't want to be with you, Enjolras? That I wouldn't avoid this if I could? You really believe that you are everything but my first choice? I am not yours, Enjolras. The same way you are not mine."

"Will you stop talking like an oracle and maybe remember that we are actually married, and that... "

"A piece of paper can't hold my life or yours. "

"A piece of paper doesn't mean anything, but the way I feel for you must mean _something_!"

"But you can't be with me. Your heart will break. You don't speak the language, you don't know the customs, and you love your land more than you love me. I try to understand you, Enjolras. I love the waves. I belong with them."

"_You really believe that the last name on my lips won't be yours, do you? That when the rivers of Russia will freeze my bones, I will not think of you? Because that's where I am headed, anyway. We know too well that only one thing comes out of Russia, and that's winter, and not me._"

Eponnia's lips turned pale, as the color washed away from her face.

"Don't say that, Enjolras. You will not die."

_"I will, and you know that. I will die, and you know what the worst part about it is? I don't want to. Had they asked me to go five years ago, I would have been the first to sign up, proud to give my life for something more than a petty bank account or a seat at the ballet. But since the day I met you, I- "_

He broke down sobbing. Her arms were around his neck in a matter of seconds, and her lips on his cheeks.

_"I was proud to have something to die for, Eponnia. Until you gave me something to live for."_

"That is our curse, Enjolras. I was determined to die and sink like this city, but _romantic tragedies never belong to the real world. All it belongs here is mediocrity, and forgotten names of glories past. You took me away from my home, but I took you away from what you believed in. We killed each other with the same double end sword_... And I am sorry for that. I would undo it, if I could. I would never save you, if it all had to end like this."

_"I would do it again, you know? If the clocks turned back, and if I were the soldier I was once was, charging my gun in a dark alley, and a young girl offered me her hand and told me that she had a place for me to stay - against all odds, I would do it again. I would do it again until there was no way of changing it, and the only thing that remained was a faint scent of lavender."_

She kissed his forehead, shivering.

_"Because you are of the earth, and you create roots."_

* * *

She woke up to see him standing at the dark, square table in their room. He hadn't sleep, she could tell. In his hands, there was a deck of cards - Italian made, the ones sold in the markets near the harbor.

"What are you doing?"

"Just a little experiment before I leave. If truly there is no way to change anything, and if the future has already been decided - this is my last hand with you, I suppose."

She sat down, worried.

"What do you mean?"

"That of all the things you have said last night, though poetic and thoughtful, I don't believe a single one. Don't get me wrong. I respect the love you have for your heritage. But all this talk about fate and the impossibility to change it - well, I grew up in one summer, and that summer was 1789, and I grew up reading Rousseau and Diderot, and learned about reason."

"Enjolras, I- "

"Let me finish. We all have our systems, we are only humans, after all. And mine stands by the fact that we make our fortunes and we call them fate."

"You have no idea what you are talking about... "

"Scientifically speaking. You said I can't change the ending of our story, right? But what if I choose something else."

"You are not making any sense for someone who calls himself a man of reason."

"I am only proposing to meet each other half way." he cut the deck in two. "Swords, I leave for France. Cups, I stay. We have the same probability, only that our lives are at stake."

She sighed deeply. "Cups, you die. Swords, I die. Wonderfully put. Send my congratulations to your French philosophers. I can't believe you are making fun of all I-"

"I am not making fun of anything. I am simply trying to find a bridge between our two views of the world. After all - _isn't Venice the city of bridges?"_

She had started combing her hair. "Very well, Enjolras. Do it. What did I tell you? You are not suited for this. You are losing your mind." she got up from the chair. "I will be downstairs, when you are ready - I doubt a simple card can make you change your mind about your life, but if you insist."

_"It's not my life, it's ours. And this is my last hand - and it's yours too."_

"So eager to create roots on treacherous ground and ruin your life with one careless gesture."

"It's not treacherous ground if you know what lies beneath, and that is you."

All it took was a cup of coffee, and the promise to learn the language - _women of the waters know when they are beaten, and know when to struck deals. They know when to let go of stories, and when their change of form is necessary - like the streams when they face the sea._ As she kissed him, and prayed that the waves did not swallow him, she knew. She had to give it to him - sheer luck and bravado were two of his best qualities. The other one was the curve of his lips when his eyes met hers. _That charm could have easily outdone any other, if only believed it enough - she didn't need to see any card to do that. And she had the intention to believe in it for the rest of their life._

* * *

He had never forgotten the bridge near Santa Maria they had ran across the first time she held his hand, on the way to her house - a graceful, small one. It could have been easily destroyed, but it was always hidden, and rested safely to guard the waters. The steps were carved one by one, and lovers used to put their letters there - they were within reach, for those who knew were to look. But for those who didn't, like jealous husbands or protective mothers, it was impossible. And even if they had managed to discover the secret of the steps, humidity would have transfigured paper and ink long before they had gotten there - only soaked words would have remained.

_Much like his faith in Napoleon, and the three of swords._

"you will never understand, enjolras of the earth."

"what"

"that it was always like this. it was always me and you. you were the young poet crossing the bridge of Firenze as you saw a woman there, and she died young and unloved, and you gave her life in Paradise. i was the young girl by the balcony in verona, and Sherazade telling you stories, and the woman of Teuteburg crying."

"then stop crying"

"i can't. it's not my choice. it's not ours. let this end with a broken heart and not a broken life."

"i will die without you"

"you won't. you will marry a gentle woman of the earth."

"i want you"

"that is not true"

"so what if you were the woman who cried on Rome's ashes and the woman who will see the Emperor fall. so what if the rivers of Russia freeze my bones and i live to see the end of the world. if it was always us, it means i will you see again."

"you will. and i will die."

"or i will."

"there is no other way around it, Enjolras. your death or mine. my heart or yours."

"then let me die seeing you."

"why do you have to be so stubborn"

"because I am not made of water, and I create roots, and i am pretty sure this is hallucinating. you say that the dice will always be thrown this way. well screw it. i don't believe it."

"you"

"i am yours only, and the dice are mine, so here's my last hand, and it's yours too. let me throw it in the waters."

"you will forget yourself for me."

"i am only doing what you have been doing for the past thousand years."

"fine."

Enjolras missed france and the bridges, but his daughter with curly hair was forgetting.

"she is of the waters like you"

"but earth runs in her veins. she is not like me. she will endure."


End file.
